Paradoxal Truths
by lily-bug
Summary: The truth may be expected, but lies are easier. What happens when lies and deception consume your life. Sequel to “Exit Stage Left”. (Back Up!)
1. It Starts

Disclaimer: "OH GOD! PLEASE STOP HIM!" He's on the other side of the door. I can feel his presence through the thin wood. He grunts, then an axe thrusts through the closed door, wood splintering everywhere. "Heeeere's Johnny!" he screams, peaking through the hole. Backing away, he begins to chop through the door. As I start to frantically cry, I look at the knife in my clenched fist. I know what I have to do, to protect my son and myself. But it means something dreadful. "Joss Whedon, honey," I plead, "Please put the axe down! I'm sorry that I wrote a story using your characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I'm sorry that I started writing a sucky sequel! I won't do it ever EVER again!" The chopping stops and my hopes rise. "Sorry babe," he says, "But you have to learn a lesson."  
  
Rating: R- once again, I go into the world of the unclean  
  
Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.  
  
Author's Notes: Back again! Holy shit in hell! How y'all doin'? I had a sudden inspiration for the story and typed out this chapter. I gave you all a week to rest up from my last story. I didn't want to write my little ficlet (shows how much conviction I have). Here's a bit of warning for this story: Read the first story before you embark in THIS twisted tale. We're gonna be meeting some old characters, from the show and from my last story. There might possibly be some major character death. And a whole lotta blood, sex, cursing, and military talk. I don't know anything about the US army or such; it's what I pick up from the movies I watch. Please R & R. Tell me what you think about it. Remember, it's all for you. Love Lily-bug.  
  
PS: For all you newbies, I like stealing shit from pop culture and using it in my disclaimers. The one above is from a great horror movie, The Shining. Not The Shinning, the Shining. Jack Nicolson (bad spelling) is one bad- assed motherfucker! Well, not as good as Kevin Smith, but close enough.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter One- It Starts  
  
Five million people lived in the city of Los Angeles. Each one of them had a story to tell, from the janitor at the bus depot, to the creative consultant of Morrison Advertising. They worked, slept, ate, fucked, bought clothes, and went about their lives. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the electric current they gave off. Even at 3:00 in the morning. An observer looking through an open window could watch the city, and long for that sense of purpose its inhabitants felt.  
  
Sighing inwardly, Angel turned away from his window. It was simply too much to feel that longing. Sure, he would live significantly longer than the entire population out there, but every once in a while, he wanted to be a part of it. Part of the human world. And whenever he felt this way, he found it best to throw himself in his work, to forget.  
  
A thick file sat on his desk. No doubt, another weird mystery that needed to be solved. Rolling his eyes, he picked it up, indifferently flipping through the pages. It got boring. Fast.  
  
Quickly shutting the file, Angel plopped his legs on top of his desk. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in his chair. The street light from below shone through his office, creating ambiguous shadows on the walls.  
  
*It's late, I'm hungry, and I'm bored.*  
  
Deciding to get back on task, he grabbed the file and began to read it. Skimming the police report, he was interrupted by a knock.  
  
Someone at the door.  
  
Sitting up, Angel put the file down. "Come in," he replied, trying hard to disguise the boredom he felt.  
  
As the large plywood door slowly swung open, Angel felt the blood drain from his face.  
  
"Oh, God . . ."  
  
  
  
It was only nine in the morning, but the bright sun had already started its daily task of baking the earth. Months ago, it was a lush green plain. But, the dry season started, and turned the ground to a barren wasteland of dust.  
  
Placing her Gucci glasses on the bridge of her nose, Jennifer Walsh opened the helicopter door and jumped onto the plain. The parched ground cracked as she began to walk to the scene.  
  
Forty-eight hours earlier, she had been preparing to dive into her feather bed for a long-needed sleep. But a call from her bosses at the Pentagon changed that. Putting her on the next available transport to the Serengeti Plain in Africa, they gave her strict orders: Examine the village, take as many notes as possible, and report back immediately. And under no circumstances was she to discuss this with any non-military personnel.  
  
Walsh headed towards a large work tent set to protect the investigators from the harsh sun. As she approached, a tall man wearing a T-shirt and khaki shorts spotted her and quickly jogged over to meet her.  
  
"How'd ya do?" he slurred out in a thick Kentucky accent, "Name's Major Eddie Keldon, Overseas Division, United States Military."  
  
"Jennifer Walsh, Director of Special Interests, Pentagon," she roboticly spewed out, lightly shaking the bearded man's sweaty hand.  
  
"Well, guess you're here to see 'em, huh?" With a condescending grin, he began to walk to the group of huts diagonally across from the work tent. The scene of interest.  
  
Reaching into her sack, she pulled out a large camera. "Tell me everything leading up to this moment," the woman ordered, pushing her light brown hair out of her face.  
  
Major Keldon sighed. "Two days ago, I was running drills out here with my men. One of the captains stopped the drill when he spotted something in the camp. I went over to investigate, then called my commanders to explain what I had seen. They said to set up a temporary headquarters and wait for the big guns to come in." Lightly slapping her on the shoulder, he heartily laughed. "Guess that's you."  
  
About to retort disgustedly, Walsh was stopped when she entered the camp.  
  
It was a small village inhabited by the natives, the huts made of plain grasses. Dishes sat in the sun, containing the forgotten meal. Simple toys the children played with were scattered through the area. Laundry still hung out to dry.  
  
But Walsh did not pay attention to the signs of life interrupted. Her focus was on the sea of two hundred bodies lying on the hot sun. The dead native people. Adults, women, children.  
  
"Look at this!" Walsh ran to an older woman, still holding the ladle to her cooking pot. "Whatever had happened to these people happened instantaneously! There's no sign of disturbance, of trauma!" Holding the Nikon camera to her eye, she made repeated pictures of the woman, then moved on to the bodies surrounding her.  
  
Kneeling near the body of a six-year-old boy, Walsh took seven photos. "I don't understand," she mumbled to herself, "Why would the government want to know . . ."  
  
She stopped.  
  
Something was carved into the boy's right hand.  
  
Walsh picked up the corpse's hand. It was beginning to rot under the hot sun, but she ignored whatever feelings of revulsion that surface.  
  
It was a mark. Possibly made with a knife, or another sharp object. A line ran the length of his palm, while another criss-crossed through it. There was no blood, so it was made after the death.  
  
Reaching across to the next corpse, she examined its hand. There was an identical mark.  
  
Every single body had the mark on its right hand.  
  
"Shit!" Walsh got out her satellite phone. As she dialed her boss's number, she addressed Major Keldon. "I want all your men to record the positions of the bodies. Record where they lay retrospectively to each other, and how far away. What direction are they facing, are there any additional marks?" Motioning for him to move in closer, she whispered, "As soon as you have all the facts, bag the bodies and send them to the Pentagon. Then burn the village and anything around it for a two-mile radius."  
  
Someone began to speak on her phone. "It's Walsh," she said to the secretary, "Tell Pitts that it's urgent."  
  
  
  
Secretary of Defense Andrew Pitts hurriedly walked through the White House hallway. Portraits of dead Presidents glared down as the balding man rushed to the Cabinet meeting. Walsh's call yesterday had set him off track, and her arrival minutes ago had him completely confused.  
  
Walsh ran behind him, rolling her hair into a quick bun. As soon as she set foot on the ground, she ran to the bathroom to change and freshen up. It wasn't every day that a younger member got to enter a Cabinet meeting.  
  
"Got everything ready?" he asked.  
  
"Rrry. Mf gof ering," she mumbled, files clenched in her mouth as she clipped a watch on her wrist, her black briefcase tucked under one arm.  
  
Slowing so they walked side by side, Pitts eyed her. "Don't worry about anything. Just tell them the facts and what you recommend we do. Be prepared to field a few questions. And don't be nervous."  
  
"Yeah right," Walsh laughed, "There's absolutely nothing to be worried about."  
  
A guard armed with a pistol stood by the double doors. Quickly glancing at the passes, he opened the doors.  
  
All the members of the president's Cabinet were seated, discussing the possible reasons why Pitts had called this urgent meeting. Eyes turned to the doors as Pitts and Walsh entered the room. It must have been a sight: a 63-year-old ex-Marine and a 24-year-old Westpoint dropout.  
  
Preparing to speak, Pitts stopped when the doors behind him opened. President Daniel Fielding, followed by three secret service officials, swept into the room.  
  
"Sit down, sit down," he grumbled as the Cabinet members rose. Plopping down into his larger chair, he slammed his hands on the table. "So what's so important Andrew? What's so important that I might possibly miss Monday Night Football?"  
  
Raising his hands, Pitts shook his head. "All the explaining will be done by her." He turned and beaconded Walsh to step forward. "This is Jennifer Walsh, Director of Special Interests at the Pentagon." Giving her a quick smile of reassurance, he took his seat.  
  
Swallowing uneasily, Walsh looked down at her notes. "About three days ago, Military forces in the Serengeti of Africa came across a village." Placing a reel of slides into the nearby projector, she signaled for the lights to be dimmed. The picture of the village flashed onto the wall. "A Major was sent to investigate, and came across this," she clicked the controller, and the photo of the victims came up, "The bodies of the inhabitants, all of whom apparently died at the same time." Clicking again, the projector now showed the picture of the mark. "Further investigation found this, a symbol carved into the right hand of the corpses. Every single one." Raising her hand, the lights came back on.  
  
Glancing around the room, the Cabinet members exchanged confused looks.  
  
"Excuse me, Miss Walsh," the President spoke up, "Could you please explain to me what this has to do with the United States? A ritualistic suicide in Africa."  
  
In agreement, the Secretary of Treasury nodded her head. "Yes. And, if you don't mind me asking, what exactly does your title mean, Miss Walsh?"  
  
As she nervously looked at Pitts, Walsh bit her lip. "Mr. President, Members of the Cabinet," she announced, clearing her throat, "I guess it's my duty to tell you that the world isn't what it seems. Your parents' lied when they told you nothing exists that goes 'bump' in the night. Creatures, of unimaginable power and evil, roam the earth. Remember all those things from monster movies: vampires, werewolves, demons? They exist." Holding in a laugh as their mouths dropped open, she continued. "The Department of Special Interests was set up about twenty years ago to monitor the activities of these creatures, in case they became a threat to the State."  
  
Shifting his stare to Pitts, the President stared. "You mean to tell me this administration has been funding a group that keeps its eye on the Bogeyman?"  
  
Before he could respond, Walsh spoke up. "Mr. President, I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's completely true. Remember the Philadelphia massacre three years ago? It was a gang of rogue vampires, not a crowd homicide. These things exist, and it's my duty to keep the monsters in line."  
  
No one said a word as the President placed his chin in his hands. "Alright," he sighed, "Let me ignore my initial reactions of shock and denial. Again, what does this have to do with the United States?"  
  
Reaching into her briefcase, Walsh pulled out a leather-bound book. "In 1832, a prophet by the name of Josiah Drew wrote this manuscript, 'Timeline of the World'. In it, he contains many predictions of the future, all of them dealing with the United States, and all of the prophecies proving truthful. He accurately predicts the Civil War, Pearl Harbor, television, Vietnam, September 11th, and so on. The prophecies are obviously vague, until the event happens. Except for the last entry." Opening the book, she handed it to the President.  
  
With a worried glance, he pulled out his reading glasses. "It says," he recited, " 'Two hundred unknown sacrifices needed, and gained. And on the final ground, the valley of the Sol, the Horsemen of Sin will unite. Their utensil, a seedling, lies in the valley. And with their joining, the Armies of Darkness will arise and consume. Life to nothingness to silence.' ". He stopped, flipping through the pages. "There's nothing more, just a drawing."  
  
Holding the book up, he showed it to his Cabinet. It was a sketch of the mark, a long line with a crude lightning bolt running through it.  
  
"What is that?" asked the Secretary of the Treasury.  
  
"The symbol of the Horsemen of Sin," whispered Walsh. "We've been analyzing that excerpt for years, only to come to the same conclusion: it's the Apocalypse." Rubbing her forehead, she took a seat. " 'Two hundred unknown', or foreign, 'sacrifices needed'. And they've gotten their sacrifices. Let us all know by leaving their symbol behind."  
  
"Where's the valley of Sol?" asked President Fielding.  
  
"Umm," answered Pitts, "Five years ago, we attempted to locate this place. An interpretation of this title means 'valley of the Sun'. We believe it is a small suburb in California called Sunnydale."  
  
Placing his hands on top of his head, the President stood. "So, we go to this Sunnydale with a few hundred divisions of Marines, and wait for these Horsemen."  
  
Walsh shook her head. "It's not that simple, sir. These Horsemen probably have powers we couldn't match. The entire armed forces of the US might not be able to defeat the Horsemen."  
  
"So what do we do?"  
  
"Well," sighed the younger woman, pulling two small files from her briefcase; "There is something we can do. But, it means involving civilians. Quite a few, possibly."  
  
Sitting down, President Fielding sighed. "What is it?"  
  
"We'd have to call upon a mystical warrior."  
  
"Who is this guy?"  
  
"Girl," interrupted Walsh, "A woman. Called the Slayer." 


	2. 7:15 AM

Disclaimer: I'm not feeling very creative in the disclaimer section today. Why, you ask? I just wrote a new chapter for my two stories, followed by an intense paper discussing Renaissance sexism in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Get over it! I didn't create Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Angel for that matter, and I don't own any of the characters. Fine! Are all you lawyers happy now? Eat my ass!  
  
Rating: R- sex is a good thing, but not today.  
  
Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.  
  
Author's Notes: New chapter! Yeah, I don't wanna write anymore. I love you all, but my brain hurts. Please read and respond. Ooh, and I put out a new story. Check it out. Yeah, that's right, this is the shameless self promotion hour! I love you all, and you all deserve a cookie!  
  
PS: None today, except that Buddy Christ told me that he has a mondo wedgie and wants someone to pick it out. Volunteers?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Two- 7:15 AM  
  
  
  
"Alright, you bastard. I've taken enough of your shit." Holding the cutting tool inches from her victim, Buffy squinted. "Eat knife!"  
  
Quickly, she brought the knife down, cutting through the soft flesh. But as it slid its way through, juice shot out and penetrated Buffy's eye.  
  
"SON OF A BITCH!" Throwing the knife down, she blindly made her way to the sink. "GOD DAMNED ORANGE!"  
  
A quick flick of the wrist, and the faucet was turned on. Cupping her hands, she let the cool water pool in her hands before washing her eye out.  
  
After toweling off, she went back to the cutting board on the island of her kitchen. Three apples, a bunch of grapes, two bananas, a starfruit, and six kiwis lay on the plastic surface, cut perfectly. All that was needed to complete the fruit salad was the "bastard orange".  
  
Pushing a strand of her honey-blonde hair out of her eyes, Buffy picked up the knife. Cutting the orange into six sections, then slicing up those sections, she threw the rind-less pieces into a nearby bowl, followed by the remaining fruit. A sprinkling of coconut later, the salad was complete.  
  
*Pretty damned good.* Considering the fact that Buffy couldn't boil water if her life depended on it, she felt prided that nothing blew up during her cooking excursion. *That's why Spike does the food-making.*  
  
As if on cue, she heard Spike race down the stairs behind her, skipping the last few steps with a long jump. He was quickly behind her, rapping his arms around her small body.  
  
"Morning pet," he growled into her ear, sending a few shivers through her skin. She could still smell the soap from his shower, his curly hair damp. Without warning, he let go of her, and slid his hands under the skirt of her light purple sundress.  
  
"Hey, leggo!" Turning around, she playfully punched him on the arm. It was then she noticed that he was sans shirt. "And stop prancing around like a peacock and put on a damned shirt!" she yelled, trying to wipe the smirk off his face.  
  
"Why should I? 'S my house too." With an impish grin, he stepped towards her, pinning Buffy against the island.  
  
Willing herself not to smile, Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Because," she whispered, mock seductively, "You know that I can't resist you. I just may have to take you, right here on this counter. And that worries me because if Dylan walked in on us, she may need years of therapy."  
  
Getting the picture, Spike rolled his eyes and walked into the nearby laundry room. Seating herself on the counter, Buffy popped a grape into her mouth. She giggled as Spike came back into the kitchen, apparently pouting, a black shirt pulled on.  
  
"Speaking of our girl," he asked, joining Buffy on the counter, "Just where in the bollocks is she?"  
  
"Out there," she sighed, pointing to their small backyard. "She's been up since 6. Like she has been doing since school let out. If you were a good father, you would've known that. But you were fast asleep."  
  
Insulted, Spike quickly turned his head towards Buffy, then noticing she was kidding. "Yeah luv," he let his head drop to the ground, "I'm a terrible Dad. I need to be punished."  
  
"Oh yeah, I'm going to . . ."  
  
The sex talk was interrupted when the French doors leading to the backyard swung open. Dylan stood at the entrance, muddy from head to foot.  
  
"Mommy, I had an accident." The seven-year-old grinned mischievously when she saw her parents' faces.  
  
Rubbing her forehead, Buffy slid down from the counter and picked up her daughter. "Are you coming to help?" she asked Spike, shooting daggers when he grinned back.  
  
"In a min pet."  
  
As she huffed out of the room, something glittering on her finger got his attention. A bit of morning sun gleaming through the window caught on her engagement ring.  
  
"Shit," muttered the ex-vampire, running his hands through his hair. It had been almost eight years since he had proposed. And each passing year, the question of when kept coming up. But there was always something in the way. Always.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by a high shrill from the downstairs bathroom.  
  
"No Mommy, that's my favorite shirt!"  
  
"Spike!" screamed Buffy; "You get in this bathroom now! Or I'll never, EVER . . ."  
  
"Bloody hell," he moaned, "I'm coming! I'm coming!"  
  
  
  
"Persephone, the maiden Goddess, hear my call!"  
  
"Demeter, the mother Goddess, hear my call!"  
  
"Hecate, the crone Goddess, hear my call!" There was a slight pause. "Why do I have to invoke the crone Goddess?"  
  
"Because it completes the circle. And Laila and I already take up two of the invokes, so you have to take the last one!"  
  
"Well, I'm just as much her mother as you!"  
  
"And we understand that!"  
  
"So can't we take those technicalities into account?"  
  
"WILLOW! We're not being technical! We're teaching! Get over it!"  
  
Giving Tara a quick evil eye, Willow sat back on her haunches. "Hecate," she over-enunciated, getting a quick eye roll from Tara, "The crone Goddess, hear my call!"  
  
In the center of the small circle lay a candle, a deep emerald green. When the last Goddess was invoked, the flame began to dim, then burned with twice the intensity.  
  
"Alright," whispered Tara, grabbing a leather pouch from behind her, "Take the sand, and spread it around the candle." She then handed it to a wide- eyed Laila, mesmerized by the flame.  
  
"'K Mommy." As Laila poured the sand, Willow picked up her ritual dagger and slid the blade across her thumb. Tara did the same action with her dagger. A small dot of blood peaked from the skin, and when there was enough, the two women spread it in the sand.  
  
Laila watched intensely. "When do I get to do that?" she asked, pointing at the dagger.  
  
Willow sighed. "The same day I let you go to Amsterdam, alone, with my credit card."  
  
"So, never?"  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
Giggling, Tara continued with the lesson. "We've just given our offering, so if we were actually doing the reversal spell, this is the point where we'd start the chant."  
  
"But," added Willow, "Because you live with a bunch of fuddy-duddies, this is the point where we blow the candle out and go eat a big bowl of Froot Loops."  
  
"Much better Mommers," admitted the child, running out of the darkened room.  
  
Shaking her head, Willow bent down and blew the flame out, just as Tara turned on the light.  
  
"I don't think she's liking the lessons." Tara sat next to Willow, brushing the sand into a pile.  
  
Quickly giving her partner a kiss, Willow laughed. "She's nine! And summer started four days ago! She'd rather goof around outside then sit in a dark room learning spell preparation!"  
  
"Still," Tara complained, "She's not as focused as she SHOULD be."  
  
"Tara baby," sighed the redhead, "She'll get it, someday. We know she has some incredible powers. It'll just take time."  
  
Smiling, Tara leaned her head on the brunette's shoulder. "Since when did you become the reassurer?"  
  
"About the same time I became the crone Goddess."  
  
Someone at the room entrance coughed. The two Wiccas turned, seeing their child waiting, arms across her chest.  
  
"I would like my Froot Loops TODAY!"  
  
"Impatient little wench," whispered Willow. "Ok," she said to Laila, "Let's go put some dyed sugar in your belly."  
  
  
  
A bird sat outside the window, singing some beautiful tune in the bright June morning. The sun, up at least an hour, would now be shining through the windows, but the thin curtains shielded the light, making the room glow warmly.  
  
Stretching her arms above her head, Anya shifted in her large bed. The Magic Shop wasn't open for a while, leaving the morning free to lie in bed, soaking in the peaceful climate. Not once-  
  
"GILLIAN! GET OUTTA THE BATHROOM! IT'S MY TURN!"  
  
"BITE ME, MONKEY BUTT! WHEN I'M DONE, THEN YOU CAN HAVE IT!"  
  
"MOM! GILLIAN WON'T LET ME GO PEE!"  
  
"DAD! RYAN WON'T DIE!"  
  
Making a face of bitter disappointment, Anya slid out of bed, pulling her silk robe over her nightgown. She opened the door, just as her thirteen- year-old daughter screamed.  
  
Ryan had, somehow, thrown Gillian on the ground, and now sat on her back, pulling her hair like horse reins. Gillian thrashed underneath the ten-year- old, desperately trying to buck him off.  
  
Rushing forward, Anya swiftly picked the boy up, then separated the two when Gillian attempted to retaliate.  
  
"RYAN ALEXANDER HARRIS!" screamed the woman, poking her finger into his chest, "We have MORE than one bathroom in this house! And your sister is not a horse!"  
  
When Gillian began to smirk at her brother's punishment, Anya whipped her head around. "And as for you, Gillian Elizabeth Harris, being thirteen does NOT give you the right to make the bathroom into your own club house!"  
  
Tears started to streak down Gillian's face, and the very emotional girl ran to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Ryan simply smiled, then went into the bathroom.  
  
Rubbing her neck, Anya made her way down the stairs, muttering something about boarding school. Passing the living room, she entered the kitchen.  
  
Xander was at the stove, cooking the morning breakfast of eggs. Without looking up from the pan, he thrust a cup of tea into his wife's hand before she could say a word.  
  
"Thanks," she sighed, seating herself on the barstool. Letting the scent of raspberry waft into her nose, she started taking short sips. "Just where were you during that wonderful family moment?"  
  
"I knew that my lovely wife, the ex-vengeance demon, could handle herself." Xander smiled, even when Anya threw an apple at his back.  
  
"So," started Anya, flipping through the newspaper, "What are you doing today?"  
  
He laughed. "I'm exploring the exciting world of dry sheet-rocking." Picking up the spatula, he mixed the eggs around. "What about you?"  
  
"Oh, we're having the Autumn Equinox sale! All blue candles half-off!" As she spoke, her eyes lit up.  
  
"Awn," her husband sighed, turning around, "Isn't the Autumn Equinox in . . . autumn?"  
  
The brunette moaned, rolling her eyes. "Xander, you hold sales for event in the future so the customer can prepare. Also, it gives the illusion of paying less, even though the time to buy should be after the holiday."  
  
"My mistake." He turned around, not liking the economics talk. "So, how do you want your eggs?"  
  
Before she could respond, there was a scream.  
  
"RYAN!!! Eww, get that away from . . . MOM!"  
  
Anya turned to a chuckling Xander. "Removed."  
  
  
  
"Now I know my A B C's, next time won't you sing with . . ." the singing stopped, "Bridget, we do not put crayons in our nose. Take it out now. Darling, take it out now! GILES! Take that away from her!"  
  
"She'll be perfectly alright, Olivia. Stop worrying."  
  
When he saw her look of firm resolution, Giles set down the paper and took the crayon out of his daughter's hand. The three-year-old began to cry.  
  
As if the noise could get worse, there was shouting from the other side of the table.  
  
"Dad, tell Derek that I'm am too a human!" cried six-year-old Paul, hitting his brother at the same time. They had been fighting for half the morning.  
  
"Boys, stop it now!" Growled Olivia, her morning toast in hand.  
  
Pushing back in his chair, Paul began to pout, while eleven-year-old Derek sat up, happily smiling.  
  
Giles caught that look. "Derek, because you insist on being a nuisance, I guess you'll just have to come with me to the Magic Box today." Scowling, the boy flopped down.  
  
Olivia began to say something, when she saw the clock behind Giles. "God, I have to go. I've got that bloody meeting with the beneficiaries." She stood, walking around the rectangular table, kissing everyone. "See you tonight," she called, picking up her bag and going through the front door.  
  
Standing, Giles began to pick up the breakfast dishes, as the boys ran to watch TV. Soon, he could hear scuffling echoing through the apartment.  
  
"Boys, we'll have none of that today!" he yelled, pouring soggy breakfast cereal down the drain.  
  
He could hear Olivia's car start up, then leave the complex.  
  
Taking his glasses off, Giles sighed. Something was going on with Olivia. After Paul's birth, she took over the gallery once run by Joyce. But as the years passed, she kept spending more time there, claiming she had work to do.  
  
He pushed those thoughts out of his head when he closed the dishwasher. His little theory was not something he wanted the kids to pick up on. So, Giles put his glasses back on, and sat back at the table.  
  
Little Bridget now happily bounced in her highchair, singing some little song and holding her stuffed frog.  
  
"Daddy!" she called, reaching out to be picked up. Giles pulled her out of her highchair. Giving him a quick hug, she slid to the ground, running to be with her brothers.  
  
Sighing, Giles pulled out the obituaries, looking for any strange deaths. Except for the many "unusual bite marks", there was nothing.  
  
As there had been for many years.  
  
Was Sunnydale becoming a . . . normal town?  
  
"Dad, you have to come see this!" cried Derek, indicating the breaking news on the TV.  
  
Apparently not. 


	3. Heading to the Valley

Disclaimer: "So," the doctor starts, uneasily looking over my sister's wounds, "How exactly did this happen?" Before I can say anything, she jumps in. "Oh . . . so, like, I was, like, running through a cornfield and being chased by, like, these little . . . thingies. They were, like, um . . . you know! And, so I, like, run into this barn, and there's, like, Elmo, except he's like in leather and chains and bondage. And I'm like 'Oh my god!'. So I got, like, mondo freaked out. Then, he starts talking, except he's, like, talking like I imagined Happy Noodle Boy would, like, talk. And he says, 'Anyanka, this is the spirit of Joss Whedon! Tell Lily-bug that she doesn't own anything related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel, or else I will eat your testicles!' And I'm like, 'Hey, dude, I like don't have testicles!' So then he, like, takes a dentist scraper and picks away at my skin!" She stops when she runs out of breath, a satisfied smile creeping up on her lips. The doctor looks to me. "She's a crack whore, and decided to get a do-it-yourself tattoo using an ice-pick," I explain. Rolling his eyes, he pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. It's going to be a long night.  
  
Rating: R- insert something clever/perverted here  
  
Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.  
  
Author's Notes: Wow! I feel so weird. I attended my first punk concert on Wednesday, and am still feeling the side effects. And now, I can officially say, "I survived a mosh-pit!" Anyway, here's a new chapter for all you good people. I hope you all like the story. I have some wild things planned. Oh yeah, it's gonna get all spacey. I should mention that I'm writing this in conjunction with "Most Rare Vision", so I'm going to update every other story. It sucks, but I can only do so much. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Love to you all, especially those who enjoy cheese!  
  
PS: Right, you're probably wondering where I came up with that fucked-up disclaimer. I was super bored and feeling funky. The whole cornfield thing was stolen from the movie Signs. Elmo belongs to Sesame Street, and as some tell me, does not enjoy playing a cross-dressing dominatrix. Happy Noodle Boy is part of the "Johnny the Homicidal Maniac" comic book series. As for Anyanka-Faith . . . that's how she really talks. Let's hope she gets some help.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Three- Heading to the Valley  
  
Five cups of coffee later, they found themselves in the same position.  
  
"I'm just not understanding this," sighed President Fielding, sending a stack of papers to his right.  
  
Pitts rubbed the bald spot in the back of his head. "Sir, you have to view this from a non-biased standpoint."  
  
"Fuck that!" Leaning on the large conference table, Fielding carefully supported his head. "I just don't see why we can't fight these Horsemen bastards with all the firepower we can gather!"  
  
Turning her attention back to her yellow notepad, Walsh rolled her eyes. The man wasn't getting the point.  
  
"Mr. President," she spoke up, "You can't fight mystical forces with firepower! It's like trying to stop bullets with daisies!"  
  
Gripping his fist in frustration, Fielding forced back his anger. "Then tell me," he growled through clenched teeth, "What you think we should do."  
  
Walsh slid two files across the mahogany table. "We need to contact the Slayer."  
  
"Explain to me again, what is a Slayer?" He glanced down at the two files, not picking them up.  
  
"A Slayer is a young woman chosen to fight the forces of darkness," she quoted from memory, "She is blessed with super strength, healing powers, keen senses, agility, and speed. When one dies, another one is chosen, the cycle never breaking."  
  
"So who the hell is this Slayer?"  
  
An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Walsh bit her lip. *How do I explain this?*  
  
"Well," she started, "There's two Slayers. Actually, we don't know how many there are." Staring up, she began to rub her neck. "It's not the business for the Department of Special Interests to interfere with the lives of the Slayers. Not a lot is known about their personal lives, or the creatures they've had to fight against. But, we do have some information."  
  
Indicating him to open the first file, she continued. "The most recent Slayer is Faith, but I highly recommend that we DON'T ask her for help!" Walsh chuckled to herself. "She's insane. The paperwork we have on her, the limited amount, indicates she's a psychopath with no grasp on human ethics. Plus, she serving time in prison for manslaughter."  
  
Fielding threw that file to the floor. "How exactly is that supposed to help?"  
  
"Let me continue!" Taking a deep breath, she controlled her emotions. "There is a second Slayer, a more experienced and level-headed Slayer." Fielding opened the next file, as Walsh recited the information. "Her name is Buffy Summers. Again, the information on her is limited. We know she lives in Sunnydale with her daughter and fiancé. Works at a local magick store. But, she's good. She's the longest living Slayer in history. Of the three apocalypses we've known about, she was the one to stop them. We need her help!"  
  
Fielding closed the file, then pressed his hands against his eyes, thinking the issue over. "I want you to understand, Miss Walsh," he began, "I have serious reservations about bringing a civilian, even a mystical warrior, into an issue of national security. There's too much risk involved." Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. "But, you have given me no other options. Tomorrow, I want you and Pitts on the next flight to Sunnydale. Get in contact with this Slayer. But, be discreet! I don't want the public to get a hold of this!"  
  
Grinning, Walsh leapt up. "Thank you sir," she exclaimed, shaking the President's hand as he stood.  
  
"Just don't disappoint me," he growled. With a swift turn, he left the room, Secret Service in tow.  
  
  
  
"Well, considering the occasion, that didn't go so bad," commented Pitts as he and Walsh stepped into his private car. He was expecting a panic attack from the Commander in Chief, but ended up with a levelheaded reaction.  
  
Giving his driver instructions, Pitts turned back to Walsh. She was fidgeting with her jacket, obviously worried.  
  
"Jennifer, what's wrong?" he asked; now addressing her as a friend.  
  
She shook her head. "I just lied to the President."  
  
He gave a double take. "WHAT?"  
  
"We know a lot more about this Buffy Summers than I let on." Walsh let out a brief sigh. "Remember that project back in 1999? The Initiative? For a while, she was included as a civilian member, but rebelled later on, and brought her then-boyfriend with her. She has a habit of disappearing for an extended amount of time. There's all this shit that may get in the way of stopping the Horsemen."  
  
Pitts put his head down, wanting to concentrate more on the floor than Walsh. "Why didn't you tell President Fielding that?"  
  
"If he knew about these things, do you really think he'd let us contact her?"  
  
Without a word being said, Walsh knew he agreed.  
  
The pair rode in silence for a while, absently looking out the window as the city passed by.  
  
"Whatever you do," Pitts spoke up, "Don't let him know. He can be a lenient guy on some things, but this isn't one of them."  
  
They arrived outside of Walsh's small Arlington apartment.  
  
"Get a good nights sleep," ordered Pitts. "We've got a hell of a job tomorrow."  
  
Walsh laughed. "Tomorrow? That's just the beginning."  
  
  
  
Serengeti Plain  
  
His back, his neck, his legs, even his toes felt stiff. With a loud moan, Major Keldon threw his arms over his head, then stretched every moveable joint in his body.  
  
"Damn it," he mumbled, returning to the forms in front of him. Instead of enjoying the warm evening, he was stuck inside a private tent, filling out the paperwork that Walsh girl had given him. One hundred and fifty-seven pages of crap.  
  
*I hate those intellectual bitches, always acting superior. Especially her, what with her camera, fucking morbid questions, dumb helicopter, nice legs . . .*  
  
Stopping the mildly sexual thoughts, Keldon returned his attention to the forms. Ninety-four pages to go.  
  
'Question 453- If there were any casualties, please state the number:'  
  
Keldon reached for his clipboard containing all the information, then wrote in the amount. The first figure had been an estimation, but they now knew.  
  
'182 casualties.'  
  
There was movement outside the tent. Keldon looked up.  
  
"Hey Dan, that you?" he asked, putting the pencil in his hand down.  
  
As soon as the tent flap was pushed aside, it was shut quickly behind them.  
  
No one heard Keldon scream.  
  
It would be hours before anyone discovered the body.  
  
Or the other seventeen scattered throughout the plain. 


	4. A Change in the Wind

Disclaimer: Fuck! Fuck! Mother mother fuck fuck! Mother fuck! Mother Fuck! Mother mother fuck! One! Two! One two three four! Noise noise noise! Smokin' weed, smokin' weed! Doin' coke, drinkin' beers! Drinkin' beers beers beers! Writing fan fiction! Based on Joss Whedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer! Rollin' fatties! Smokin' blunts! Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts! Rollin' blunts and smokin' 'em! (How much for a nickel bag?) Fifteen bucks, little man! Put that shit in my hand! If the money doesn't show, then you owe me, owe me, owe! (cue music) My Jungle Love! O ee o ee o! I think I wanna know ya, know ya!  
  
Rating: R- there's nothing really bad in this chapter. Well, except for . . . see above.  
  
Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.  
  
Author's Notes: I am so sorry for the delay. School bites ass majorly! Thank Goddess it's over! Here's an extra long chapter to apologize, and as my present to the world for the holidays. I didn't know where I was going with this, but thanks to my muse Anyanka Faith, I know! *sings* I once was lost, but now I'm found! Ugh, that's quite enough! Hope you enjoy! Have a happy capitalistic-driven holiday! I know I will!  
  
PS: Do you know what? I don't know how I survived this long without watching a Kevin Smith movie! The man is a bonified genius! Jay and Silent Bob are my heroes. They're like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern meet Abbott and Costello. Or Cheech and Chong meet Beavis and Butthead. Anyway, I borrowed the above "fuck rap" from Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. And the description I just gave them is from Chasing Amy. Someone please stop me!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Four- A Change in the Wind  
  
It could all be described in one phrase, spoken so eloquently by Gillian.  
  
"Well that's just . . . icky!"  
  
Shushing the child, Tara turned the volume up on the portable TV. She and Giles, Anya, Buffy, and the kids sat in silence, watching the scene. Although the Magic Box should have opened half an hour ago, the workers remained in the Scooby Conference Room, not caring a bit.  
  
On the television, a reporter for Sunnydale 5 News, about thirty years old and quite frazzled, looked down at her notes, then back to the camera.  
  
"For those of you just tuning in, officials have confirmed that all thirty are dead." She turned her head, looking at the crime scene. Sunnydale Athletic Gym, just behind her, was swamped with ambulances, police cars, reporters, and spectators. "Here is a recap: At four-thirteen this morning, 911 dispatch received a call that someone inside the Sunnydale Gym had, quote "torn the insides" out of a trainer. When police arrived at the scene ten minutes later, all thirty gym members and employees were found dead."  
  
Then, the screen flashed a view of the gym front. Large glass windows, once spotless, were smeared with blood, oozing down in streaks. Another flash, and there was a close up of a body bag, hoisted by two emergency response members, being put into the ambulance.  
  
Waiting for her cue, the reporter continued. "Before officials arrived on the scene, there were reports of at least five decapitated bodies, six other bodies with the skin removed, and various body parts strewn about the building. There is no confirmation or denial of this rumor. Also in speculation are who did this, and why the massacre was performed. The mastermind could lie among the victims, or might have fled the scene before officials arrived." Grimacing as she glanced once again at the spectacle, the reporter signed off, promising an update when new information arrived.  
  
Sitting up, Giles clicked the TV off, as the group sat in silence.  
  
"So," Buffy began, looking down at the Formica table, "Any thoughts, Giles?"  
  
He shrugged. "I don't quite know. This couldn't be some random attack."  
  
"Demon gang?" Anya blurted out, simultaneously price-checking amulets.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Tara sat up, stretching her arms above her head. "So, research party tonight? I'll call Willow and ask her to pick up pizza."  
  
Anya followed suit. "I'll get a hold of Xander. He's working near there and could check it out around lunch."  
  
"Oh, Spike can watch from home in case anything else happens!" Buffy stood, and ran out of the conference room before anyone else could get to the phone. Tara and Anya followed, proclaiming they had first dibs.  
  
Still in the room, Giles slowly put the small TV away. He turned, looking into the faces of all seven kids.  
  
"Uncle Giles," sighed Gillian, resting her head on her arm, "There's not going to be a research party tonight, is there?"  
  
"Yes, apparently there is," he answered, taking off his glasses to clean them. "Why do you ask?"  
  
Rolling her eyes, she flopped on the table. "I WAS supposed to spend the night at my friend Katelyn's house, but I guess that's not going to happen!"  
  
Not answering the sullen teenager, Giles exited the room. While he went to the front door, he racked his brain for possibilities. As Anya pointed out, it could have been a demon gang. Or a ritual sacrifice. Or, against his better judgement, it could have just been a random killing.  
  
He jolted out of his thought when he noticed a pair of eyes staring at him through the Magic Box's glass door. Fourteen pairs of eyes to be exact. A crowd was gathered outside, waiting for the doors to be opened.  
  
"This is going to be a long day," he sighed, pulling out his keys to unlock the door.  
  
  
  
"Hmmm . . . let's see. 'Jacob Namwen's novel is best described as expensive toilet paper, rather than the great literary masterpiece he claims it to be. He has no sense of imagination, no firm standpoint on current ethical issues in the legal world, and no idea how to craft a suspense novel. Personally, I'd rather . . .' ". Pausing, he began to flick his pencil against the table, searching for the right words. " 'I'd rather . . .' Oh yeah! 'I'd rather gouge my eyes out with railroad spikes than read this horrible novel again.' Bloody brilliant!"  
  
Throwing the pencil across the room, Spike sat back on the couch, smirking at his genius. He had been laboring the past two hours, desperately trying to pan his newest read, "Blizzard Sunrise", without being too harsh. That hadn't been working out, so he gave up and let loose with the trademark sarcasm and wit that made him the most popular literary critic for the LA Times.  
  
For the first two years of his new, human life, Spike had no idea what he was going to do for a living. Xander had been kind enough to give him a job in construction until he got on his feet, but it wasn't enough. Spike knew he needed a job.  
  
It all changed when he found an ad in the local Sunnydale paper, asking the public's opinion on a new book. Spike had read the novel, and because he had writing experience during his first human years, he decided to give it a go. The Sunnydale Post published his review. But someone from the LA Times read his review then offered him a writing job one week later.  
  
Under the name of Will Summers, Spike spent the next seven years writing from the comfort of his living room. Because he had no desire to move, and because the Times were willing to accept anything to get him on staff, Spike was allowed to work from home. And, although he didn't mention it during the interview, Spike was still anxious in sunlight.  
  
Being a human wasn't THAT bad of a situation, although Spike wasn't sure if he was technically a human. When he was turned back, he retained all of his demon abilities: the strength, the speed, and the senses. It was like he was still a vampire, only he now had a heartbeat, could have children and go into the daylight. No more drinking blood, no more cross or holy water phobia.  
  
Kicking his heels onto the coffee table, Spike turned his attention to the TV. Thirty people dead in a gym. No suspects, no intention known. Buffy had called him earlier, asking him to watch and call if anything new came out. So for the past hour, he had been passively watching.  
  
"Bint," he muttered as the reporter repeated the facts for the zillionth time. He hated the way reporters would fill up the interrupted schedule "news time" by blandly re-telling the story.  
  
But his attitude changed when the screen changed, showing pictures of the crime scene. Somewhere in his new-beating heart, he still had a soft spot for gory violence. "The Aerobic Massacre", as it was now dubbed, reminded him of a little incident in Paris during the 20s. Smiling softly to himself, he remembered walking into the crowded boutique, knowing that not one person would exit alive.  
  
Suddenly, he frowned. It all seemed a little TOO familiar. Like someone was replaying the past. As another gurney rolled by on the screen, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This just wasn't right.  
  
Shaking off the feeling, Spike quickly turned the TV off.  
  
He wasn't telling anyone about that reaction. No one needed to know.  
  
  
  
"Three candles, two petrified slugs, a bottle of stewed catrouver thumbs, and a candy bar. Anything else?" When the customer shook his head, Anya continued. "Your total is $17.93." The cash was exchanged, and the items placed in a sack. "Thank you, and please come again!"  
  
Closing the register, Anya grinned. It was noon, so all the potential customers were at lunch, but it didn't phase her. The Magic Box had been buzzing for hours. All the shoppers, roaming about, bringing in more money.  
  
A few remained in the store, slowly grazing through the items. Two middle- aged women, regulars in the shop, were with Giles in the charmed object area, discussing the myth of the jade butterfly. Tara was helping a teenage boy look on the Internet to see if he had been cursed with a love spell. A younger woman and an older man were looking through the library. And Gillian was in the loft, grudgingly explaining the difference in incense to a newlywed couple.  
  
Tucking a strand of her light-brown hair behind her ear, Anya smiled up at her pre-teen daughter. Gillian responded with a quick scowl.  
  
Anya knew she hated working at the Magic Box during the summer. She would rather be off with her friends; those high pitched chatty things, Katelyn and Jamie. But she had a responsibility. She had developing powers, and just like Laila, needed to be in constant contact with these ideas.  
  
Adverting her attention away, Anya noticed that the young woman from the book section was nervously making her way to the cash register.  
  
"Um . . . I was wondering if you could help me?" the young dark-blonde woman asked, playing with the hem of her shirt.  
  
Smiling brightly, Anya straightened up. "Yes, I can help you! I own the Magic Box, so it is in my job description to help customers! How may I help you?"  
  
"Well," she leaned in, looking back at the older man in the library; "I wanted to know if I could . . . talk to Buffy Summers?"  
  
Her bright smile slightly faded. *Oh, not a customer.*  
  
"Buffy Summers? She's not available at the moment."  
  
The girl looked back at the man, and he shrugged a response. It gave Anya a chance to examine the girl's aura. A light purple glow radiated from her body, meaning she had grown up too fast while little white sparks shot off, indicating some inner turmoil or excitement.  
  
She turned back, giving a half smile. "When will Miss Summers be available? When's closing time?"  
  
"We close on Fridays at five."  
  
Anya watched the older man quickly exit the building, then the young blonde followed, not before stopping briefly. "Tell Miss Summers that I will meet her at closing time."  
  
"But who are . . ." asked the retired vengeance demon, stopping when the door closed behind the girl.  
  
*Stupid loiterers. Always hanging around, not buying anything.*  
  
Frowning, Anya headed to the backroom.  
  
  
  
It had been a lie. Buffy had been in the backroom the whole time.  
  
When Buffy had come to work at the Magic Box, she had made it clear that she would NOT deal with customers. She reminded everyone about her past experiences in the workplace, and wished for something a little less demanding.  
  
So, Anya and Giles gave her the task of maintaining the online Magic Box, taking in orders and filling them. And to her surprise, Buffy found that the job wasn't that hard. It was only taking things from one column, putting them in another, and adding on a ten percent shipping charge. Nothing boring, like the Doublemeat Palace, trashy, like bartending, or enraging, like working in the store.  
  
Also, Buffy babysat the kids in the backroom. Early on, the personnel of the store learned that letting children exist in the shop area made customers want to leave. Very quickly.  
  
For the moment, they were all behaving. Derek and Ryan were at the desk, playing video games on another computer and laughing at the cartoon violence. Dylan and Laila, the tomboy and princess respectively, were busy drawing with Paul on the floor, not fighting as usual. As for Bridget, she slept on the pallet in the corner.  
  
Buffy looked back at the computer screen. Someone in Cleveland had ordered sixteen bunches of dried cat tongues. *Gross.*  
  
"Hey Buffy?" a voice asked from the door. It was Anya, peaking in.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Stepping over the drawers, Anya crouched down to Buffy.  
  
"Someone came in a few seconds ago, asking for you. I told the girl you were busy. I didn't want her to interrupt you if it wasn't important. She's coming back at closing time."  
  
"Do you know what she wants?"  
  
Anya chucked. "Nope, not a clue. All I know is that I'm hungry." She turned to the kids, drawing their attention. "How about we get sandwiches from the deli today!"  
  
In the blink of an eye, the mob of children ran out of the room, leaving Anya, Buffy, and the sleeping three-year-old.  
  
"Get me a turkey hoagie, no Mayo. I'll stay with the little one," laughed Buffy. Anya patted her on the back, then left the room.  
  
Returning to her work, Buffy forgot everything else. She had to finish these orders before four, or else she'd have twice the amount to do tomorrow.  
  
The door opened again. Looking away from the computer screen, Buffy saw Laila come into the room.  
  
"Hey Laila-Baila, what's going on? Didn't you go with the others?"  
  
Grinning, the little redhead came up next to Buffy. "Nah. Gillian was going with us, and she's in a bad mood today. She's a butthole when she's mean, Aunt Buffy."  
  
"Don't call her that!" Buffy exclaimed, trying to hold back a laugh. *Ah, to be thirteen again.* "You know she can't help it!"  
  
Laila sighed. "I know. But now I get to spend time with my most favoritist butt-kicking aunt!"  
  
The two warmly embraced. Buffy always had a soft spot for her sweet niece. She had, after all, been one of the reasons why she had stayed so many years ago.  
  
But as the two hugged, Buffy felt the girl tense up suddenly, as if a bolt of lightning had shot through her skin. Pulling away, she looked to see if anything was wrong with the child.  
  
Laila's pale face was blank, her eyes becoming two black orbs.  
  
"Honey, is everything ok?" She began to panic, wondering if she should call for help.  
  
In a whisper only Buffy could here, Laila spoke before the trance broke. Before she went back to normal, as if nothing had happened. What she said chilled Buffy's blood.  
  
"When the time comes, they will betray us." 


	5. No Matter What You Say

Disclaimer: I'm not really feeling creative today. I saw Lord of the Rings: Two Towers for the second time this afternoon. God, I love that movie, but it takes a lot outta me. Then I have to finish Pride and Prejudice before break gets over, and fill out some college stuff, so my mind isn't working. I do not own, much to my unhappiness, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Joss Whedon owns it all, lucky schmuck. If someone wants to give me a good birthday present this year, give me the rights to the show. Or money. Money is always appreciated.  
  
Rating: R- sorry to tell you all out there, but no bad stuff in this chapter.  
  
Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.  
  
Author's Notes: I am Delay Girl! All bow before me! (plays theme from Superman XIV: Attack of the Mushroom Gnomes). Christmas activities took up a lot of my time, and then my mom got sick Christmas Eve and still remains in an icky state, so I've slacked off. But, I will now continue with the writing, and have updated with two (count 'em, TWO) chapters, in honor of The Two Towers. Orlando Bloom is so hot . . . oops, sorry 'bout that! Anyway, on with the shoe (that is on purpose, all you people who are going to write in about that).  
  
PS: I like cheese.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Five- No Matter What You Say  
  
"Buffy, you NEED to calm down!" Willow yelled through the phone, trying desperately to console the hysterical woman.  
  
"B-b-but . . . she said . . ." choked out the blonde, clearly frightened.  
  
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Willow sighed. Buffy had been like this for the past ten minutes, alternating between crying and screaming.  
  
"Calm down and answer something!" yelled the redhead. She continued when the other line became quiet. "Is Laila ok? Does she remember anything?"  
  
"Yes and no," whispered Buffy, "She fine, but she doesn't remember."  
  
"Then there is no point in getting upset. If Laila's ok, then we don't have to worry."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really really." Willow began to laugh. "Buffy, she's my daughter! If this were such a big thing, I'd be worried! But it's not!"  
  
"But what she said . . ."  
  
"Who knows what it means!" she interrupted, "We'll find out sooner or later! Just don't worry about it. Get back to work, and don't talk to Laila about it."  
  
"But-"  
  
"No buts! I said get back to work and I mean it!" she commanded, wishing Buffy could see her resolve face.  
  
The blonde sighed. "Fine. See you tonight." The other line clicked off.  
  
Slowly, Willow set down the receiver. She had to be calm to reason with Buffy, but now that the conversation was over, Willow began to feel uneasy. Something was communicating through her daughter.  
  
'When the time comes, they will betray us.'  
  
Not something that should be coming out of a nine-year-old.  
  
Shaking her head, Willow settled her nerves. Like she had told Buffy, it was no use worrying about it.  
  
She grabbed a file and threw it in the large box on top of her desk. Six others and thirteen theses written by her last senior class soon followed it. Wearing a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt, Willow emptied the contents of her desk drawers. It was her favorite summer tradition: cleaning out her office for the end of the year.  
  
School had officially ended two weeks ago. All of the students had packed their belongings and gone home for the summer. But for her, she had to remain, attending meetings and figuring out lesson plans for next year. Due to a small budget cut, Willow discovered that she would be teaching a European history class along with her Mystical Theory and Exploration into the Occult Arts courses. But it was over, and the redheaded witch was ready to start the summer.  
  
Dumping her large collection of computer discs into the box, Willow closed the metal drawers on her desk. She picked up the box, then balanced it on her hip as she locked her office door, the last time until the fall session.  
  
*Ok, it's three o'clock. I'll get home, put away my crap, and watch some TV as I do the laundry, then I'll get some pizzas and head to the Magic Box around five. Tonight, I'll check on Laila; make sure everything's fine.*  
  
Walking through the parking lot, deep in thought, Willow didn't hear the person calling her until she reached her car.  
  
"PROFESSOR ROSENBURG! WAIT UP!"  
  
Turning, she saw a young man racing towards her. As he got closer, she recognized him.  
  
"Joel! What are you still doing here?" Willow exclaimed.  
  
Joel Carter, her junior Assistant Teacher for the term, smiled brightly as he attempted to suck in some breath.  
  
"I . . . went to office to talk to you, but you weren't there! The janitor said that you . . . you had just left. So I ran, and here I am!"  
  
She laughed. "But you were supposed to go back to Washington two weeks ago!"  
  
"Some buddies and I decided to stay at the last minute. We got a place on Kaplan Street."  
  
Chuckling silently, Willow popped the trunk open and threw her box in. Joel had been a great help through the last term, attentive and hardworking, while at the same time, always ready to have fun.  
  
"So what do you want, Mr. Carter, that makes me start my vacation late?" teased the woman.  
  
"Well," he shied away, "I wanted to start my final thesis early this year, and was wondering- if you have the time- if you could maybe, possibly help me with it over the summer?"  
  
Putting her hand on her hips, Willow mockingly frowned. "I don't know. I have so much to do this summer: sleeping in, watching soap operas, taking my daughter to the beach . . ." Then she smiled. "I'd be delighted to help you!"  
  
Grinning even more brightly, Joel began to salaam. "Oh thankyouthankyou THANK YOU!"  
  
Willow pushed him away. "That's enough! Call me whenever you need me. Now leave me alone! I'm missing All My Children!"  
  
Giving her a quick hug, the boy raced off, leaving his professor holding back laughter.  
  
As she opened her car door, her cell phone began to ring. Someone at the Magic Box. Most likely Buffy.  
  
*It NEVER ends!*  
  
  
  
Quietly humming to herself, Buffy pushed a broom through the Magic Box. Cleaning at the end of the day always made her happy. No more work for the next fifteen hours.  
  
The atmosphere in the shop was light. Anya stood at the cash register totaling the day's proceeds, the smile on her face growing brighter with each bill she counted. Up in the loft, Tara and the girls were arranging the remaining candles and dancing to a song on the radio.  
  
The only thing that brought the mood down was her knowledge that Giles was in the conference room, researching. After four, he gathered a few books and started to pour through them, intent on finding something useful.  
  
A few minutes later, a bell jingled as the front door opened. Stepping in was Willow, followed by Xander and Spike, each carrying two large pizzas.  
  
Greetings and kisses were exchanged as the group came together in the conference room. As a rule established long ago, research wouldn't start until everyone had eaten.  
  
As the horde dug into the pizzas, Buffy noticed there was an absence. Olivia hadn't arrived yet.  
  
"Hey," she turned, whispering to Anya, "Where's Olivia?"  
  
The woman shook her head. "I heard Giles talking to her on the phone. She has a dinner meeting with some French collector. As usual."  
  
Buffy gave a small smile as Anya snorted in anger. Olivia was never around. She always had something better to do be with the Scoobies. It was almost like she had a private life outside of the one she had with Giles.  
  
*Can't think that way.* Buffy mentally scolded herself. This had to be taking its toll on Giles, who was currently lost in thought, occasionally sighing heavily. So she grabbed a piece of Hawaiian pizza and took a huge bite.  
  
Dinner passed without a major problem. Derek and Dylan had a small pepperoni fight, and Ryan managed to get a whole piece stuck to the ceiling, much to his mother's dismay. But it passed, and the mess was thrown away.  
  
Surveying the room, Giles waited until everything was settled. "I guess it's time to start," he announced.  
  
Gillian responded by standing up, grabbing her backpack, and heading out of the room.  
  
"Gillian, where're you off to?" asked Xander, taking a swig of pop.  
  
"Home." She didn't turn around, but Buffy could feel the eye roll.  
  
He stood, following her. "I really don't think that's going to happen."  
  
"Come on, its like not even dark out!" Her whining echoed out from the main room. "I'll be fine! I won't talk to strangers, I'll keep my bottle of holy water out, and I'll lock the door when I get home!"  
  
There was a pause. "Fine. Go straight home. Since you don't wanna help us out, you'll have to clean the kitchen when you get home, and no talking to Jaime or Katelyn on the phone."  
  
A mumbled "God, you guys suck" was drowned out as the front door slammed shut. Xander came back into the room, rubbing his temple.  
  
"Is it against the law to lock up a person until they turn 18?"  
  
Ignoring the comment, Giles went on. "From what I've brought together, this attack was-"  
  
A knocking at the front door interrupted him.  
  
"I'll get it," volunteered Anya. "Probably Jilly. She must've forgotten something crucial, like her nail file."  
  
Watching the vengeance demon leave the room, Buffy started to mindlessly flip through a large manual on ritual sacrifice. She could hear a mumbled conversation between Anya and the person at the door.  
  
"Buffy! Someone's here to see you!" called Anya as she came back into the conference room, silently mouthing 'That person's back' as Buffy stood. She heard Anya reassuring everyone as she closed the door behind her.  
  
Her guest were actually two people, a young woman intently focusing on her, while the other, an older man, wandered through the shop.  
  
"I'm Buffy Summers," she greeted, extending her hand.  
  
"Jennifer Walsh," the woman responded. She was very young, probably not even twenty-five, wearing a simple, but expensive, white shirt and khaki shorts. Pointing to the man, who was examining an Afghani fertility statue, she explained he was Andrew Pitts, her boss.  
  
"What can I help you with?" asked Buffy, seating herself at a small table, indicating Jennifer to do the same.  
  
She began to trace the cover of a spell book left on the table. "First off, I should let you know that both Mr. Pitts and I are aware of your . . . unique qualities."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"We know that you are the Slayer."  
  
It hit Buffy like a ton of bricks. "Who are you?"  
  
The older man, Pitts, came up to the two women. "Secretary of Defense Andrew Pitts, United States Government. Miss Walsh is Director of Special Interests, Pentagon."  
  
"You're all government people?"  
  
"Yes ma'am."  
  
Throwing her head back, Buffy sighed. "Great."  
  
Walsh continued. "Miss Summers, I regret to inform you that, as of this moment, the world is in danger of an impending-"  
  
"Apocalypse." Finished the Slayer, rolling her eyes.  
  
"Yes." Stealing a quick, confused glance at her boss, Walsh leaned towards the woman. "How did you know."  
  
"Why else would you guys come after me?"  
  
Managing an uncomfortable laugh, Walsh continued. "For years, my department has had knowledge of this apocalypse, but have been waiting for the signs to show. A few days ago, we got them. It's our intention that we . . ."  
  
"How did you get the knowledge, what were the signs, and what's gonna trigger it."  
  
Walsh looked at her amazed, most likely impressed with her passiveness. "Um . . . well, we learned about it in a rare book by Josiah Drew, 'Timeline of the World'. The sign was the ritualistic massacre of a village in Africa. And, well," she looked down at a notebook that materialized in her hands, "The book says that a group called the Horsemen of Sin will be the . . . trigger."  
  
Casually, Buffy stood and walked to the conference room. "Hey Giles," she called as she opened the door, "Got an apocalypse coming. Josiah Drew. 'Timeline of the World'. Ritualistic sacrifice. Horsemen of Sin." As Giles responded, disturbingly excited, Buffy turned back to the guests. "Well, thanks for the info. We'll try to get a hold of you when we stop it."  
  
Standing, Pitts at her side, Walsh approached the woman. "I don't think you understand the severity of the situation. If someone can't stop it, thousands will die."  
  
"You don't think I know that?" laughed Buffy.  
  
"It's the responsibility of the United States Government to . . ."  
  
"Jenny, listen." Holding up her hand, Buffy rubbed her eyes. "I'm sure you're aware of my last involvement with the government."  
  
"The Initiative."  
  
"Bingo. After that fun time, I made it clear that I would never work again with you military people. It's not your fault, I get it, but I don't care. I've got a team of people in there that can help me fight these 'Horsemen' freaks. Leave the shop, have dinner at the café three blocks up, and go home in the morning."  
  
"Miss Summers-"  
  
Quickly ushering them to the door, she ignored any pleas. "Again, thank you Mr. Pitts, Miss Walsh-"  
  
She stopped. *Miss Walsh?*  
  
Buffy took a closer look at this woman. Her hair was darker, her nose a little more rounded, but she could clearly see a resemblance between her and . . .  
  
"Oh, this is wonderful!" exclaimed Buffy. "You guys don't give up, do you?" When neither responded, Buffy pushed them out the door. Adding "Don't bother us!", she slammed the door in their face.  
  
The conference room door opened. Spike, holding a sleeping Bridget, popped his head out. "You ok, pet?" he asked, cradling his niece.  
  
Buffy walked to him, giving him a quick kiss. "Yeah, everything's good."  
  
  
  
*Everything's wrong.*  
  
He shook his head as he walked down the sidewalk. But he kept going, intent on going through with it.  
  
*She probably won't . . . doesn't even recognize . . . shouldn't be here.*  
  
He arrived at the house, all too soon. After all these years, it still looked the same. The porch swing, the tall tree, her bedroom window . . .  
  
Trembling, he walked up the front steps. He could here someone inside, chatting on the phone.  
  
*She must be home, or else I can find out where she is.*  
  
Timidly raising his hand, he pushed the doorbell, his stomach crawling into his throat as he did so.  
  
*Here we go.*  
  
  
  
"No fucking way! I mean, he was, like, so . . . you really think so?" asked Gillian, popping an M&M into her mouth.  
  
"I swear to God, he is so into you," replied Jordan.  
  
As she giggled, Gillian kicked her striped toe socks onto the coffee table. Through the phone, she could hear Jordan giggle as well. Their conversation had been going like this for the past two hours.  
  
*Dad said I couldn't talk to Jaime or Katelyn. He didn't say anything about Jordan.*  
  
"But he's such a skater wannabe. It's pathetic. Last week, he said that Blink-182 was classic punk!"  
  
"Really?" cried Gillian, secretly not sure of the difference. "You've GOT to be kidding!"  
  
"No. He's a little pony. Clippity clop!"  
  
The two girls melted into laughter, until Gillian heard the doorbell ring.  
  
"Hey, gotta go. I'll talk to you tomorrow."  
  
"See you babe!"  
  
Hitting the off button, Gillian set the phone down. The doorbell rang again.  
  
"I'm comin'! I'm comin'!" *God, impatient people suck!* She flung the door open. "Yeah, what do you want?"  
  
Standing at the door was a man, youngish looking. He didn't look at her, instead choosing to stare at his feet as he awkwardly shifted his weight. On first glance, Gillian decided he was cute, even if he acted and dressed a bit too mysterious for her taste.  
  
"I wanted to know if . . ." he began, raising his head. But he stopped when he looked at Gillian. Confusion swept over his face. "I'm looking for . . ."  
  
"Looking for who?" asked Gillian, starting to get annoyed by the cute guy.  
  
"Looking for . . . well," he glanced at the porch swing, "You see, I . . . well I . . . How long have you lived here?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Ever since I was born? Why? Are you with the CIA?"  
  
He chuckled nervously. "No . . . I, um, I thought someone I . . . used to know would be here. But . . ." he stopped, standing up straight, "I guess I made a mistake. Sorry to interrupt you."  
  
"No problem," growled Gillian, secretly letting him know never to do it again.  
  
Without a word, the cute guy turned around and jogged down the front steps, and raced down the street.  
  
Gillian shut the door, then quickly dialed up Jordan again. "You are never going to believe what just happened!" she cried when her friend answered. 


	6. Huh?

Disclaimer: I own nothing Buffy the Vampire Slayer related. It's all Joss Whedon's. But, in a few days, I WILL own the second season on DVD, so take that motha fucka.  
  
Rating: R- implied sex! Hey, it's better than no sex.  
  
Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.  
  
Author's Notes: I didn't say this in my last chapter. I hope you all have a Happy New Year. I sit at home, typing up my stories, while you all party. I am a loser, and I admit it. Actually, New Years has always been a bad holiday for me, so it's probably a good thing I stay home.  
  
PS: I really like cheese.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Six- Huh?  
  
A mile outside of downtown Sunnydale, right off the main highway that passed by the small town, lay a hotel, a frequent resting-place for tourists coming up from LA and businessmen in town to secure some deal. Although it wouldn't be considered posh, it was a comfortable place to relax.  
  
On the third floor, or more correctly, the top floor, was a large conference room, mainly obtained for banquets and community dances. At the request of their bosses, Walsh and Pitts rented out this space.  
  
"No, I assure you, Mr. President, it will get done!" Pitts was pacing around the room, yelling into his satellite phone.  
  
Walsh sat nearby, making notes on a yellow pad and listening to half of Pitts' conversation. Their first meeting with Buffy Summers had not gone well, and she knew that more drastic measures would have to be taken.  
  
"Yes! I understand! You see, I . . . no! That is not necessary! We just need some more . . . tomorrow? Fine. Yes sir."  
  
She watched all of his energy leave him as he pushed the off button on the phone. Giving a disheartened smile, he carelessly flung the phone onto a nearby folding table.  
  
"Bad news?" she asked, knowing all to well what was coming next.  
  
Seating himself into a folding metal chair, he grabbed a nearby Styrofoam cup of coffee. "We have until tomorrow. Fielding isn't happy, and wants to use the special operatives. If we can't get her to ally with us, then . . ."  
  
"They go in."  
  
"Yep." He chuckled to himself, nursing his coffee cup.  
  
Extending her legs onto the table, Walsh leaned back. "So I guess we have some work to do."  
  
"Guess so," replied Pitts, taking out his own yellow writing tablet, "So how do you propose we do it?"  
  
"Pray?"  
  
  
  
Flipping the light switch in her office off, Olivia walked into the gallery hallway. Three meetings during the course of the day, plus some price haggling with a sixty year old woman that nearly turned into a fist fight took it out of her. She just wanted to go home, soak in a warm bubble bath, then crawl into bed.  
  
She checked the back room door, making sure it was locked. Her nightly routine, which she did diligently and with care.  
  
There was a soft knock at the front door. She didn't have to check on who it was. It was always the same person.  
  
Pretending to examine an avant-guard sculpture of a butterfly in a used trash bag, she felt a pair of arms snake around her, holding her.  
  
"You're late," she scolded, a content smile on her face.  
  
"Had to do some work." He began to kiss her earlobe, then traveled down her neck, planting small kisses.  
  
"Not right now. I've got to get home."  
  
Turning her around, he looked warmly into her eyes. "It's not like your husband will mind."  
  
Her resolve melting into a puddle, Olivia leaned forward, capturing her lover's mouth in a soft kiss.  
  
"One moment." She broke the kiss, surprising him as she ran to the front door. But he felt better as he watched her turn the lock and pull the shades.  
  
"Now, where were we?" she asked, leaning against the wooden doorway.  
  
  
  
Having someone kick you in the stomach sucks.  
  
Having someone wearing steal-toed shit-kicker boots kick you in the stomach sucks big time.  
  
But, as the aforementioned foot nailed her just below the ribcage and she fell on the ground, Buffy managed a grin. It had been so long since she got to spar with an experienced vampire.  
  
Considering the fact that her opponent wasn't that old, probably only twenty years sired, the guy had power and experience. Before he died, he must have taken karate or some other form of martial arts, so he knew what he was doing.  
  
"In pain, Slayer?" he asked, a cocky smile turning up on his mouth as he stood above her.  
  
Kicking her legs in the air, she was back on her feet. "Nothin' I can't handle!"  
  
Faking a punch to the left side of his face, which he went to block, she caught her right foot underneath his left, and swept it around. He fell onto his back, but was quickly up and pissed.  
  
Trading blows, the fight lasted longer than she had expected. In a dazzling move, he round-housed her across her face, leaving her seeing stars. The little bastard could hold his own, but she wasn't about to admit that.  
  
Blocking a punch to her stomach, Buffy bumped into something hard. A large stone sarcophagus.  
  
She grasped the stone surface and flipped backwards onto the sarcophagus, but while performing the stunt, rapped her legs around the vamp's neck. As she flipped around, he went with her. Three-quarters of the way around, she let go, and he crashed onto the stone surface. Buffy swore she heard something break.  
  
Standing, she took in the sight. The vamp lay half on the raised coffin, his legs dangling over as moaned in pain. Finding her humanity for the pitiful creature, Buffy produced a stake from her coat pocket.  
  
"Good fight," she commented, before shoving the stake into his heart. He poofed into dust, and was no more.  
  
Buffy lowered herself onto the sarcophagus, massaging the tense muscles in her neck.  
  
The night hadn't gone well. Sure, the pizza was good and she was with her loved ones, but besides that, everything was bad. They hadn't made any headway with the research on the gym massacre, and now there was this Horsemen thing to deal with. Of course, you add the government people trying to drag her in, and it just got messy. When the research party ended, Spike took Dylan home so Buffy could blow off some steam.  
  
It was almost midnight. She had already dusted six vampires, and decapitated a bug eater. Almost time to call it a night.  
  
As she approached the cemetery exit, her Slayer sense went off. A vampire was closing in on her.  
  
Grasping the stake in her right hand, she stood still. This time, she wanted the vampire to make the first move, just to make the kill interesting.  
  
She could feel it moving closer. It was only a few feet behind her.  
  
But it didn't come any closer.  
  
Waiting for a few minutes, she got board. If he wasn't going to fight, she was.  
  
She spun, getting her foot in the air, waiting to kick. But when she looked at her opponent, she stopped mid-kick. Losing balance, she fell to the ground.  
  
Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she stared up at the vampire before her, who gave her an equally disbelieving look.  
  
"Angel?" 


	7. Backwards

Disclaimer: I own nothing Buffy the Vampire Slayer related. Or Angel the Series related. It's all owned by Joss Whedon. (Ok, I know my disclaimers aren't really that exciting, but it's all I can do right now. I'm focusing my creative energy on my stories, not my disclaimers at this moment, so get over it.  
  
Rating: R- not really exciting right now, but soon.  
  
Summary: The truth may be expected, but lies are easier. What happens when lies and deception consume your life. Sequel to "Exit Stage Left".  
  
Author's Notes: Howdy my chillens! So, after my long, creative hiatus, I'm back! While I thought and meditated, all these ideas came crashing in my head. All creative ideas! I want to thank all my readers for waiting. I know how much it sucks to wait for an author to post a new chapter. But, I am now distraction free. Also, I am taking a few classes this year that are so boring, I can write while I ignore the teacher. Sigh, here is a new chapter, at the insistence of a few people, to entertain one and all. Again, thank you for patiently waiting. Love Lily-bug.  
  
PS: You all are awesome.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Seven- Backwards  
  
"Angel?"  
  
She blinked rapidly, hoping that the image in front of her was a hallucination, or a case of mistaken identity.  
  
But, when she gazed back up at the figure in front of her, she knew there couldn't be any mistake.  
  
The look of amazement on Angel's face melted away, and was replaced by a soft smile.  
  
"Hey Buffy," he whispered, reaching his hand out to help Buffy up from the ground.  
  
Reluctantly taking the offered hand, she allowed herself to be pulled up.  
  
"I didn't think it was you. I mean, you see a girl alone in a cemetery and you hope . . ." he stopped short, only to smile at her.  
  
Nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Buffy refused to meet Angel's eyes. Suddenly, the 35-year-old woman felt sixteen again, reliving her past. It felt like her first year in Sunnydale, when she would run into Angel during patrol, have a few brief moments of bliss, and spent the rest of the evening with butterflies in her stomach . . .  
  
He continued. " . . . I didn't know if you were still here. I went by your house . . ."  
  
*Oh God, he didn't!*  
  
" . . . And the person who answered it-"  
  
*Please don't be Spike! Please don't be Spike!"  
  
"-Was this young girl, about thirteen or something. Not something you expect."  
  
*Thirteen year old girl? Who? Oh . . .*  
  
"That was my old house," answered the woman, secretly relieved. "That little girl was Xander's daughter. He and Anya moved in when they got married."  
  
Relief played openly on his face. "Oh." Both looked away, this conversation going nowhere.  
  
"Um." She thought hard, trying to create a conversation that would relieve the uncomfortable tension that emitted between the two. "When did you get back?"  
  
He backed away, aware of the emotions that played out on her face. "Tonight."  
  
*Such a chatty man,* she sighed inwardly. Through a nonverbal agreement, the two began to walk.  
  
"Why are you here?" she tried again.  
  
"Apocalypse. Got a tip from an old friend," he sighed, remembering the meeting.  
  
&&& Weeks Earlier &&&  
  
"Angel, my pal. Long time no see."  
  
Casually striding through his office door, Whistler threw his hat across the room.  
  
"What's going on?" asked Angel, sitting up with agitation.  
  
The demon smiled coyly. "Got some news for ya. Your girl's in trouble."  
  
&&&&&&  
  
"Whistler?" Buffy repeated, a smile growing as she recalled her mysterious friend.  
  
His grin matched hers. "Showed up at my office, talking about these 'Horsemen of Sin' guys. Came to help out."  
  
"Oh, the Horsemen," groaned Buffy, flopping down on a nearby bench. "Just heard about them today. The government's back in town, wanting to help out."  
  
A small chuckle rumbled in his throat. No other words followed.  
  
Joining her on the bench, Angel tried to calm his thoughts. There were so many things to ask her, but it might scare her away.  
  
"How is everyone?"  
  
Buffy swallowed hard. She had no idea what to tell him.  
  
"Oh, you know, everyone's fine. Jobs, family, mortgage."  
  
"How's Dawn?"  
  
"Dawn's . . ." What to tell him? "Dawn's . . . fine." The lie cut through her like a knife.  
  
Pausing, Angel noticed that Dawn was a touchy subject for Buffy. "Well, she's a good kid. She can handle anything that comes her way."  
  
Silence followed, and Angel looked away. His gaze came to rest on her arms, left bare from her white tank top. "Where'd you get these?" he asked, carefully grazing his fingers across her tattoos.  
  
"Hmm?" She joined where his eyes landed. The tattoos from her days as Phoenix. "Battle scars."  
  
An eyebrow shot up. "Physical or emotional?"  
  
"Is there a difference?"  
  
Again, he laughed. "I guess not." His fingers were still on her arm, slowly tracing the ivy band that rapped around the skin. "What about you?"  
  
Buffy swallowed hard. "Me?"  
  
"Yeah, you. What's been going on with you?"  
  
*Well Angel, I ran away from home after Dawn was killed, lived under a new identity for six years, then came back to save the world, and managed to fall in love with your Childe (who's now a human) and have a little girl. Yeah, Buffy, just go ahead and tell him that!*  
  
She . . . she couldn't do it. The last time she saw Angel was right after she was brought back from heaven. Almost fourteen years ago. The young woman that ran to him wasn't around anymore. He couldn't possibly know what she had seen, or experienced, in the last few years.  
  
"Oh, you know . . ." More lies. More lies to hide her truth.  
  
"Any new adventures?"  
  
Buffy laughed lightly. "Every single day."  
  
"Any new . . ." he paused, unsure of if he wanted the truth, "Boyfriends."  
  
*Not so much new.*  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Turning her head away, she avoided the small look of hope that sparked in his eyes. It was obvious that he still felt something for her.  
  
Opening his mouth to say something, Angel was interrupted by a beeping sound. Buffy recognized the sound. The alarm on her watch. 1 o'clock in the morning. Time to head home.  
  
"Angel, I'm sorry. I have to go." Standing, she felt her nerves begin to cool down.  
  
But he stood with her. "I'll walk you home."  
  
Spinning around quickly, she held her hands up. "No, you don't have to," she blurted out, "I mean . . . you know, the whole superhero thing. I'll be fine."  
  
Angel must have been aware of her nervousness, because he nodded. Unsure of whether to shake hands or hug, Buffy gave him a smile before walking away.  
  
He called at her when she was about fifteen yards away.  
  
"Can I see you sometime?"  
  
Her brain screamed at her. *Tell him NO!* But she felt herself walking back to him, taking the pen he produced, and writing her address on his palm.  
  
"Bye Angel." Handing him back his pen, she exited the cemetery quickly.  
  
Not before she heard him answer back.  
  
"Love you Buffy."  
  
  
  
A growl erupted from deep inside her belly, causing Willow to open her eyes. She turned to stare at the alarm clock that rested on her nightstand.  
  
1: 32 AM.  
  
"No," she moaned, not wanting to get out of bed. But another growl from her stomach answered back.  
  
Sighing, Willow pushed the sheet down, and swung her legs over the edge.  
  
Tara felt the motion and turned to her. "Wha's going on," she whispered, heavy sleep still in her eyes.  
  
Willow grinned, placing her pink bunny slippers on her bare feet. "Snack time."  
  
Nodding, Tara turned back, half asleep.  
  
Without many incidents, she went into the kitchen. After munching down a few slices of turkey and some Oreo's, Willow headed back down the hall.  
  
But a light coming from the spare bedroom stopped her.  
  
She opened the door. Sitting beside a pile of open spell books was Laila, grazing through the text.  
  
Her small head came up, knowing at once that she was busted. "Hey Mommers," she greeted, already closing the book in front of her.  
  
"What did your Mommy and I tell you about being in here alone?" asked the redhead, feeling empowering surges of the good mother.  
  
"Not to do it?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
Giving her sheepish look of apology, the eight-year-old began to set the large books back in their places on the large shelves. After a few moments, Willow joined to help.  
  
"Why were you doing this honey?" A grade school-er searching through advanced spell books was a worrying concept.  
  
Shrugging, Laila shelved a spell index. "Something told me to."  
  
A pause. "Something?" Willow asked, but at once she remembered. *Her vision.* "Did something happen today?"  
  
Nodding, the curls of her red hair bouncing, Laila continued. "Some voice inside told me to be careful. I was scared, but I was with Aunt Buffy, so I didn't say nothing."  
  
A stab of sorrow hit the mother. *Only eight, and she's got ties with the Powers That Be. It's just wrong.*  
  
She heard her daughter go on. "The stuff you and Mommy teach me is so . . . boring and easy. I know I can do more! I have to!"  
  
Hiding a smile on her face, Willow left the room, much to Laila's surprise, only to return seconds later, keys in hand.  
  
"Let's see what we can do," began the woman, opening the closet door. She produced a good-sized portable safe. Using the key to unlock it, Willow brought out several large, and old, volumes.  
  
"What are those?" the girl breathed out in amazement.  
  
"Very special books." Handing a few to her daughter, Willow sat next to her.  
  
She read the title of the first book. " 'Black Arts'?" Laila looked up with fear. "Mommy said black magic is bad!"  
  
Willow chuckled at the display of innocence. "Black magic is only bad if you can't control it," she answered, briefly recalling her dreadful magic- bender days. *No, I'm older and wiser now, and I can control it!*  
  
"Really?" Her blue eyes peaked up.  
  
"Really really." Grinning, Willow set the young girl on her lap, and opened the first book. "Have you ever seen a snake breathe fire?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, you will." 


	8. She Is My Girl?

Disclaimer: As I sit at my desk, quietly tending to my portable Zen garden and watching the blue ooze from my lava lamp drip up and down, I ponder the world. In a few days, we could be going to war. The hole in the ozone is getting bigger daily. AIDS is rampant, and people die every minute from some form of cancer. But these travesties aren't the main thing on my mind. No, dear reader, I am worried about the fate of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I fell in love with the show exactly one year ago, and it will end before I have given it enough time to grow fully in my heart. But, no matter what happens, if they cancel it altogether along with Angel, or create a new spin-off, I personally vow to keep writing fan fiction based on this wonderful television creation. Who's with me?!  
  
By the way, I don't own anything 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' or 'Angel' related. Joss Whedon does. I only own the many characters I've created, such as Gillian, President Fielding, and Dylan. That is, if I technically own them.  
  
Rating: R- hurrah! Gratuitous casual swearing and suggested sex! Fun for all ages!  
  
Summary: The truth may be expected, but lies are easier. What happens when lies and deception consume your life. Sequel to "Exit Stage Left".  
  
Author's Notes: Life, after the continuous flow of shit, has calmed down, allowing me time to write. More chapters to follow, and more frequently (if that is an actual phrase). Please give me some reviews. Don't make me pimp you all for some. I want to know if you like what I'm doing! I'm a whore, who only knows how to please! Damn it! Sorry about that, I'm just a corporate shill and a review whore.  
  
PS: The title of this chapter is derived from the song 'She Was My Girl' by Jerry Cantrell. It's off the Spiderman soundtrack, if some little part of you actually cares.  
  
  
Chapter Eight- She Is My Girl?  
  
Groaning loudly, Spike buried his face into his palms, the feeling of nausea growing in his belly.  
  
"So," he whispered, "Peaches is back."  
  
Avoiding eye contact, Buffy, clad only in a bathrobe, lowered her head and began to towel dry her wet hair.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He peaked through his fingers, trying to gage the emotions on her face. She only stared at her toes.  
  
They played this game of 'I Have A Secret' about once a month. Buffy would come home after patrolling, Spike would ask how it went, and she'd reply that nothing important happened. He'd check on Dylan and read the latest book for review while she took a shower. After she had washed the day off, she'd come out of the bathroom, a look of misery marring her features, and proceed to spill the events that caused her inner turmoil.  
  
Spike had expected that when she quietly snuck through the back door, absently giving him a kiss and running up the stairs before he could ask any deep questions.  
  
He just hadn't expected this.  
  
Angel was back. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, the one person she had wanted and the one person she couldn't have, was back. And apparently, his feelings for her had not changed over the past years.  
  
Removing his head from his hands, he tried to say something else, but began to study the comforter on the bed. Warm, plushy, black cloth folded up on the foot of the bed due to the warm weather. Red silk sheets, nicely tucked and straightened each morning, flowed over the mattress.  
  
Buffy made sure their bedroom looked exactly like the bedroom of his crypt. Either it was a way to make his adjustment to humanity smooth, or she liked the way his sheets felt when they . . .  
  
Many of the room's contents may have been his, but the room was theirs'. This house was theirs'. They had made a life together. And he would be damned if some brooding, sulking, vamp-with-a-soul prick was going to ruin it.  
  
"What'd he say?"  
  
"Say?" She kept focus on her toes, as if they'd get a mind of their own and run off.  
  
He groaned again. "What'd Angel say when you told him about us?"  
  
"Well . . ."  
  
"Buffy," he said firmly, "Look at me." She shyly looked up, the guilt back on her face. *Great.* "You didn't tell him."  
  
"Not exactly. I mean, it didn't come up."  
  
"So, your ex-boyfriend comes into town an' you two have a chat. But the fact that you and me are living together, plus the little bit of us having a daughter, doesn't pop up. Yeah, I could see how that'd happen."  
  
Her towel, a lighter shade of red, was set on her vanity, and she proceeded to run a comb through her hair.  
  
"Spike, I couldn't."  
  
"Couldn't what?"  
  
"I couldn't tell him."  
  
The sick feeling in his gut began to grow.  
  
Buffy continued. "He asked me. About everyone, Dawn. But he kept asking about me, how I was, if I had anyone in my life. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him about us, about Dylan."  
  
His gaze locked with hers, and he saw her wince slightly at the anger in his face.  
  
"So he did ask you."  
  
"Spike!" she exclaimed, though not as low so she wouldn't wake Dylan up, "I didn't tell him anything! He doesn't know about Dawn, or my Phoenix-days, or anything like that! He asked and I didn't tell him."  
  
He huffed in aggravation. "You didn't tell him anything. Well, that makes up for everythin'." The sarcasm dripped from his words.  
  
"You expect me to tell my ex that I fell in love with his Grandchilde who, by-the-way, is now human? Everything to you is just so simple, isn't it? Well, Smarty-Fuck, what if you had to tell your lovely Drusilla about us?"  
  
Standing slowly from the bed, desperately trying to wrangle his anger. "I DID tell Drusilla! You were there, Buffy! An' if I remember, you were the one who had the fucking problem with it!"  
  
"This is sooo much more different! Angel and I had a SANE relationship, unlike you and Miss 'Crazy Farm'. She didn't give a flying pig in shit about us. If I had to tell Angel, it would kill him."  
  
Internally, he knew he was winning the argument. "Angel's already dead, luv."  
  
She was caught, the next point she was going to shove up his ass lost. "Well . . . I . . ."  
  
"Damn it Buffy," he moaned, sitting back on the bed, "We're practically married, and Angel, who's still in love with you, has no clue. This is just bloody wonderful."  
  
There was a pause, until she spoke up. "But we're not married, are we Spike?" It was a whisper, but he could hear the anger and hurt in her voice.  
  
It hit him like a punch in the face. "What?"  
  
"We're not married. No, we live the suburban life. White picket fence, two car garage, soccer games, and parent-teacher meetings! But we're not married. We're simply a couple who got knocked up and moved in together."  
  
"No, you're not taking the argument there!" The accusation was as equal in his words.  
  
"Damn EVERYTHING to hell!" she screamed, sitting on the bed next to him.  
  
Neither spoke, and minutes passed as the two sat there, trying to get their emotions under control.  
  
Buffy found her voice first. "Are you worried that I might go back to Angel?"  
  
The silence settled back in as he pondered the question. He could answer it like the Whelp would, all bravado and bullshit, or he could be truthful.  
  
"Yea'. I guess so."  
  
A tiny smile peaked out on the corners of her mouth. "Do you know how old I was when I met Angel?"  
  
"How old?" He played along, not sure where she was going.  
  
"Sixteen. Remember being sixteen? You always seem to want the hard-to-reach person. Angel was mine. What I had with him was dark and passionate and depressing."  
  
He began to smile, although it was subtle. "Not makin' me feel better, luv."  
  
She took his hand, and began to softly kiss his index finger. "You and I are completely different. I can be happy with you. You make me feel happy. Real love isn't supposed to make you miserable. And, unlike Angel, you can go with me into the light. I like being with you in the light."  
  
Watching her kiss his hand, that simple sign of affection, released the nerves built up over the 'Angel Conversation'.  
  
"You better be careful, pet. You almost went someplace deep with that relationship analysis."  
  
A light giggle erupted from her, and he joined the laughter as the two embraced.  
  
"Oh, that can't happen! That might make me the calm one!"  
  
"An' I embrace my role as the normal one." Spike leaned in, pulling her into a deep kiss.  
  
"Now," he asked as they broke breathlessly, "Wha' was all that talk about yours and Angel's passionate relationship? You don't get enough from yours truly?"  
  
She giggled again. "I don't think anyone could match . . . Peaches!" she teased, her nose scrunching up.  
  
He growled, an evil smirk growing on his face, as he threw Buffy onto her back. "You," he mumbled through kisses, "Are gonna get it!"  
  
"Thank God, finally!" she half-teased, half-moaned, throwing her head back as he trailed kisses down her neck. But, as she began to pull at fabric of his shirt, she sat up. "Did you say you were the normal one in this relationship?"  
  
Sighing, he untied the cloth belt from her bathrobe and threw it across the room. "Buffy?"  
  
"Yeah," she responded, succeeding in removing his shirt.  
  
He leaned in, lightly pushing her back onto her back, and nibbled on her lower lip while wrestling with the robe.  
  
"Shut up." 


End file.
